


taken hold

by 1001cranes



Series: Tumblr Fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Kindergarten & Pre-school, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Coercion, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Knotting, Light BDSM, M/M, Mermaids, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Other, Psychological Torture, Rule 63, Superheroes, The Alpha Pack, Torture, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of tumblr fics. Updated with:</p><p>Victoria/Erica, torture<br/>Peter/Stiles, the Sheriff finds out<br/>Ennis/Derek, coercion<br/>Derek/Stiles/Laurent/Corey, nerves more 'verse<br/>Peter/Rule 63!Stiles, knotting</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Derek/Stiles, Superhero AU

**Author's Note:**

> a collection of fics from my tumblr, roseandthebeast
> 
>  
> 
> I. Derek/Stiles, ensemble; Superhero AU  
> II. Derek/Jackson, Derek likes that Jackson is frightened of him  
> III. Derek/Stiles, Derek is a werewolf and Stiles is a mermaid  
> IV. Stiles/Danny, Sharp-Dressed Man  
> V. Peter/Stiles, Stiles has a moment of weakness  
> VI. Derek&Stiles + Lydia, Sixth-grade!Derek helps with the kindergarteners  
> VII. Peter/Stiles, Derek/Scott, Peter chases Stiles down  
> VIII. Peter/Matt, the kanima's master's master  
> IX. Peter/Derek, teach you how to beg  
> X. Peter/Stiles, Peter catches Stiles on the internet  
> XI. Peter/Stiles, the promised land  
> XII. Isaac gen, brother & mother  
> XIII. Danny/Stiles, fingers  
> XIV. Kate/Derek, nape/neck  
> XV. Peter/Scott, I love you like a knife loves skin  
> XVI. Victoria/Erica, torture  
> XVII. Peter/Stiles, the Sheriff finds out  
> XVIII. Ennis/Derek, coercion  
> XIX. Derek/Stiles/Laurent/Corey, nerves more 'verse  
> XX. Peter/Rule 63!Stiles, knotting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr fic for swingsetindecember, who prompted sterek superheroes! maybe one's an intrepid reporter! bonus if it's derek
> 
> I have a deep and unabiding hatred of Superman - like, I am making >:( face just thinking about it, sorry! - so you’re going to get a team effort instead. Part of me thinks Derek is definitely Batman, or the Punisher, but right now I just want something X-Men/Justice League-y. SO. Derek is definitely the team’s Tank (Lobo); Allison is the Marksman, maybe with extra speed/agility; Scott is feral, like Wolverine or Wolfsbane; Lydia is totally Oracle, giving information from back at the Hale mansion; Stiles is the Mage/Witch, probably an Earth-based power; Isaac is something like a Stitch, like from Push, either causing injury or healing it; Boyd is some kind of psychic/telekinetic, we need one of those, and he’s got the brains; I kind of want Erica as a shapeshifter? And Jackson is clearly the Lizard. Though maybe, to be nice, he could have some control over his mutation. Like the Hulk. But scalier. Peter is their sometimes ally, sometimes enemy, crazy as a bag of cats side character, probably something like Mastermind. [I started to get really into this, and was then, ‘no, Amanda, write’]

"You've got to stop that," Derek says.

Stiles doesn't even look up from where he's bandaging Derek's arm. "And what's that, boyfriend-mine. Being devilishly charming? Coming up with battle-ready witticisms? Putting up with your continued bleeding?" Derek has an accelerated healing rate, but it's not at quite the same level as Scott's, and Isaac's healing powers were draining enough they had to be reserved for emergencies and battle only. Better to bandage now and avoid septicemia later, that was Stiles's motto.

"Getting in the way," Derek says savagely, and Stiles - very manfully - doesn't smack him upside the head.

"I know you and Scott are the front line," Stiles says. "But that sort of only works when the front line  _holds_ , okay? Sometimes Jackson and Erica have to step in, and when that all goes to shit, it's a free for all. Allison isn't trained for close range, Isaac wears out quicker than a three year old in hand-to-hand, and while Boyd  _looks_  like a big dude, he's not great with doing the physical and the psionic at the same time,  _you know this_. Shit happens. Plus, dude, we were fighting sylphs - I should have been front and center to begin with." Then, because Stiles really is kind of that vindicative, he slaps Derek's arm. Twice. "There. Bandaged up."

"Stiles -"

"Derek -"

"Stiles -"

"Derrrrrek."

"Stiles!" Derek shouts. "You can't just - you're not supposed to -"

Ah, the hazards of dating within the team. Or one of them, maybe, since the only person currently dating outside of it was Isaac. Allison and Scott had cyclical, mainly benign break-ups, and Erica and Boyd mostly argued about kill count and then went off somewhere to have sex. It was like a less fucked up Buffy and Spike. Where Erica was Spike. Either way - no one goes into the superhero business expecting to come out unscathed, or to come out at all. Stiles's father is still alive, but not his mother; and almost all of Derek's family is dead. The one other remaining Hale is not exactly what most would call sane. 

Stiles should probably be more sensitive, actually. Oops.

"Look," Stiles says, much more reasonably this time. He tries to pull on his Ms Morrell therapy voice. Pitched very reasonably and, like, soothing. "Nothing's going to happen to me, all right? It hardly ever does. And  _if_  it does, you know I can always draw directly from the Earth. The comedown's nasty, but I've done it before."

"I know," Derek growls. "I  _saw_  it," and yeah, probably not the best time to remind Derek of when Stiles was attacked by Gerard Argent. At least he's stopped blaming Allison for it; like it was her fault she came from a family of assassins. Generally bad assassins. Stiles has never known a  _good_  one, to be fair. 

Whatever. Digressing. Derek's emotional issues first.

"We talked about this," Stiles says, as gentle as he can. "I'm not going to stop being a superhero anymore than you are -"

"What if we did?" Derek interrupted, and there's a good thirty seconds where Stiles is actually, honest-to-god, surprised to speechlessness. "What if we stopped being superheros. Retired, like your dad did, and -"

"And did what? Become - become reporters, or veterinarians, or high school principals? Derek, we -  _you_  -" because Derek loves being a superhero more than anyone; needs it down to the marrow of his bones.  His whole family has been superheros before the word 'superhero' even existed - they were protectors of mankind, even when mankind thought they were monsters. "Derek, you could  _never_ ," and the set of Derek's shoulders tells Stiles he's right.

"I just want - I don't want to lose you," Derek mumbles, defeated, and Stiles crawls into Derek's lap carefully. Winds his arms around Derek's neck and pushes his face up against Derek, lets Derek smell the mostly unbloodied smell of him, Stiles's smell, uninjured. Not sick. 

"That's not gonna work, you know," Derek says, still grumpy, but about two levels down from 'lets retire' angst, so Stiles will call a win.

"Please," Stiles says. "I've caught you sniffing my shirts before. Not even anything good and pervy, like my underwear. My  _shirts_."

Derek, wisely, has nothing else to say. At least not tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure Allison could probably do well with hand-to-hand - was she boxing that one time S1, or did my brain make that up? - but for group tactical purposes, and coming from a guild of assassins, I imagine her specialty was the long-distance kill. also, sylphs are air spirits, which means Stiles's earth magic would have killed.


	2. Derek/Jackson, Derek likes that Jackson is terrified of him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For nonny, who prompted: Derek likes that Jackson is still terrified of him.
> 
> I wish it had been unanonymous so this person and I could become great friends.

Whenever Jackson is around Derek he smells of fear. Stinks of it, a high note scent that layers over everything else, sharp and salty, a tinge of submissiveness that speaks to the predator in Derek, that appeals to the Alpha, and he can't figure out how to make it stop. 

Even Derek can admit he hadn't been at his best with Jackson - slamming him against the locker and marking him, the fucking black goo - but he can't be blamed for all of it when Jackson had turned out to be the kanima, in the end. There were those who had gone through worse. And it's all over now, all sorted out; Derek isn't even that intimidating, once the initial creepiness wears off - as Stiles is so fond of telling him - but Jackson never stops smelling of fear. Jackson never stop smelling of fear, and it's beginning to drive Derek a little insane.

What could make someone so afraid, Derek wonders. A boy like Jackson, striving for perfection and so often attaining it, at least on the surface; a boy who found a place to belong when he had none; what could make him think unconditional acceptance --

The realization does hit, eventually.

| |

Derek pulls Jackson aside after the next pack meeting. Waves off Stiles's questioning look and Lydia's raised eyebrow. Derek should maybe pay a bit more attention to the humans in his life; they seem to at least have Jackson figured out.

It's easy, now, to catch the other scent Jackson puts off around Derek, the one so easily masked by fear, overwritten. Cleverly hidden, if you're not looking for it. Derek never looks for it. Doesn't usually want to know, if he's being honest. Makes life easier. But Derek couldn't stop thinking about it, about Jackson. Spent most of yesterday fisting his cock and imagining the warmth of Jackson under him. Thinks about everything he could do to make Jackson bruise.

"What," Jackson says, a touch of belligerence, a stammer of that fear. "Why does everyone else get to go?"

"Oh," Derek says, and puts his hand on the back of Jackson's neck. Runs his fingers over the scars the never did heal. "I don't think you want them here for this."

| |

"You'll like this," Derek says, as he's pulling on his gloves. "I promise."

"Please," and Jackson begs, even as he trembles. Even as he stinks of fear. "Please."

| |

The fear never does quite go away. But Derek makes his peace with it.


	3. Derek/Stiles, Derek is a werewolf and Stiles is a mermaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for trensu, who prompted: Star-crossed lovers (with a happy ending) where Stiles is a mermaid and Derek’s still a werewolf.
> 
> (I see this as a vaguely Ladyhawke situation, in that Derek is cursed to be a wolf at night, and human during the day. also LADYHAWKE. I now really want Stiles to call Derek Ladyhawke at some point. it would fulfill something in me. also not particularly star-crossed; more like star-challenged.)

Stiles usually meets Derek at the edge of the cove around daybreak. He's never early; Derek doesn't like anyone to see him transform, which Stiles can understand. It looks painful. The sun is just barely over the horizon, and Derek already looks tired.

"So how goes the cursebreaking," Stiles asks instead of how Derek is, as he pops up out of the water. He puts his hands on Derek's knees to hold himself still, Derek's feet floating back and forth next to Stiles's side.

"Still unbroken."

Not totally surprising. Tearing Kate's throat out had been a little reactionary, in Stiles's view - killing a witch didn't mean her curses ended, as was obvious. "I was hoping for more detail, but I appreciate the headline."

Derek's glower tells Stiles it's going to be one of those days. Probably Peter again - Peter comprised anywhere from twenty to seventy percent of Derek's angst on a given day. Kate's spell had made a dozen werewolves, all told, but some of them had let the power go to their heads than others.

"Look," Stiles continues, because he is a totally reasonable merperson, as far as these things go. "It's not so bad. I mean, you're human half the time. You don't lose your mind and senselessly kill things when you're a wolf. And humans can go into the water. It's not like you're a weregolem." It means Stiles has to stick to the shallows during the day, but there are worse things. He heads to the deeps to sleep at night anyway.

"So can wolves," Derek says - and rather peevishly, Stiles thinks. Hey, he's only trying to help. He is brainstorming.

"Yeah, but we can't have sexy fun times then, because you think it's weird."

Derek immediately goes red. "It is weird!"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Sure, human-mermaid is okay, but wolf-mermaid is too weird."

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to have to become a hermit," he mutters. Which - wow, Derek, take it down a notch.

"Live in a cave," Stiles says sagely, because being a good merfriend sometimes meant being supportive, and sometimes meant making fun of Derek until he snapped out of it. "Hair shirt. Crazy beard."

The look Derek gave him could have peeled bark from a tree.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders. "No use angsting about it, dude. Not right now. It's morning swim time!" Morning swim time usually turned into morning sex time, so no one could blame Stiles for being overeager, really.

Derek half-heartedly poked Stiles in the side with his foot. Which - ow, okay, being a werewolf might have had some effect on Derek's toenails, geez.

"Come onnnnn," Stiles whines. "I left behind a delightfully worn in marimo bed to listen to you angst. I could at least get a kiss."

Derek's hands are warm on the side of Stiles's face, and his mouth is warmer still. He tastes like the forest - dry, sunlight and dirt, the weird spice of human; because Derek is human, no matter what he thinks. 

Derek is smiling, a little, by the end, however he tries to hide it.

"Better," Stiles declares. "Swim now?"

"Yeah," Derek says, and slides off the rocks into the water.


	4. Stiles/Danny, Sharp-Dressed Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for rrrowr, who prompted: Stiles/Danny, sharp dressed man
> 
>  
> 
> (so, surprise, I am a huge ZZ Top fan, and will now be singing that song in my head for the rest of the day. thanks ever so. also, uhm, this is mostly a lot of Scott&Stiles bro-ing it up. but over Danny. and I know you like Scott&Stiles so I feel okay)

"So," Stiles said, and threw his bag lunch onto the table. "Danny."

Scott looked over his shoulder. He hadn't smelled Danny - and yeah, he wasn't there. "Danny," Scott repeated cautiously. 

"Danny," again, and Scott was totally lost. Stiles usually gave him a bit more than that to work with.

"You're going to have to give me a bit more than that," he said, and Stiles gave him a dirty look.

"Look at Danny," Stiles hissed, and Scott dutifully looked across the room to where Danny usually sat. And was, in fact, currently sitting with some of the other lacrosse players.

"He's... here?"

"Of course he's here! Look at him!" Stiles sounded like he was halfway to a panic attack, and his heart rate was out of control.

Scott made a face. About 95% of the time, he and Stiles were on the same wavelength. This apparently fell into the other 5%. "I'm still missing something." Was Danny another kanima? Cursed? Possessed? Secretly working for the Alpha Pack? Scott hadn't wanted to think that of Greenberg, but the betrayal still stung.

"Look at his shirt!" 

"It's orange. And... nice? Really brings out his eyes."

"More like really brings out his everything," Stiles huffed. "Look at how tight it is on his arms!"

Oh. Ohhhhh. "Danny's a good-looking guy," Scott said innocently, and Stiles gave him a sideway I-know-what-you're-up-to-buddy look. "Objectively."

"Hands off," Stiles said immediately, and started to pick at the edge of his shirt. "Aren't you and Allison on again this week?"

"I'll find out in English."

"Cool. Do you think Allison could find out..."

"If you're actually attractive to gay guys?"

Stiles beamed. "Scott. My friend. My bro. My main village man."

"I'll text her now," Scott said, and dutifully kept from rolling his eyes.

 

BONUS. 

 

"Danny," Allison whispered, and tapped him on the shoulder. Not that she needed to bother: Mrs Coleman usually ignored anything above a dull roar. "Stiles's plaid shirt today - hideous, or is he pulling it off? I can't decide."

Danny sighed. Today had been the red plaid, right? One of Stiles's favorites, judging by how often he wore it. It was definitely a little ragged, and Danny wasn't sure wearing it open over a white shirt was a fashion choice so much as a random morning grab - but red was a good color on Stiles.

"Danny?" Allison whispered again. "What do you think?"

"Pulling it off," Danny said, and looked back down at his copy of In Cold Blood. "Definitely pulling it off."


	5. Peter/Stiles, Stiles has a moment of weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for nevermind-the-moon, who wanted: Peter/Stiles, Stiles is drunk with a side of angst and Peter’s there to take advantage of it. Ooooorr Stiles is all that that Peter has and possessive!Peter is sort of endearing and creepy at the same time.
> 
> I chose Door Number One.

Stiles breaks down on a Tuesday - a very early morning or a very late night, depending on how you look at it, and Peter is there.

How Peter managed to show up at just the right time, Stiles doesn’t know. How he’d known Stiles had decided it was past time he broke into his father’s stash of bourbon, made possible by his father’s absentminded not-alcoholism;  _not_  because it’s  _not_  a problem, right, more like a solution - makes it easier for Stiles to slip out undetected, to slip back in, to look at case files and flip through his father’s text messages, his emails. Hell, it’s the reason Stiles can siphon off a fifth at a time and store it away for Scott&Allison related emergencies. 

Maybe it was just luck. 

When Peter gets there Stiles is just drunk enough. And that’s only a little piece of the puzzle, if Stiles is being honest. He’s drunk enough, yeah - not so drunk he doesn’t realize this is a  _terrible_ idea, but certainly drunk enough that he won’t care until later - and he’s also alone enough, unappreciated enough, weary enough, sad enough, fucked the fuck up enough - six of that, half dozen of another, easy pickings if anyone gave a damn about the picking. Plucking.

“Your father isn’t home,” Peter says, and he came in the  _front door_  of all things, walked in like he owned the place, like he had any right to be here, and what did it say about Stiles that he can’t summon up a little righteous indignation about that? “Alone again?”

“I’m thinking of getting the doorframes replaced with mountain ash,” Stiles says. Only a little slurred around the softer consonants, but it isn’t like Peter can’t already smell the alcohol from here. “A little pricey, but I think I’m worth it.”

“And how are you going to let Scott in?” Peter asks smoothly. Takes the bottle from the table and swallows some down. “With your pricey renovations.”

Stiles scoffs. “ _Scott_.” Scott hasn’t been to Stiles’s house in weeks, though everyone else keeps showing up. And there should be one place in this town a guy can go to be werewolf free. He’d invite Lydia. Maybe Danny. They could bond. “Scott,” Stiles says again, and it comes out as more of a sigh this time.

“Scott,” Peter repeats, and maybe it’s the drunkenness talking, but it feels like Stiles and Peter just agreed on something.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, and dings his glass up against the bottle. Peter’s hands still wrapped around the neck. “Cheers, dude. It really is the end of the world.”

Peter smiles. One of those cruel, I-have-a-secret little grins. “Oh, not yet, I’m afraid. Not just yet.” 

His hands are warmer than Stiles’s, smoother; and he’s kinder than Stiles would have thought. Maybe kinder than Stiles would have liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the abruptness of the ending. I felt this 'verse start to sink into my brain, and a girl's only got so much time.


	6. Derek&Stiles, Sixth Grade!Derek helping the kindergarteners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for blumvale, who prompted: sterek - first day of kindergarten - when I was in 6th grade, I helped out with the little kids. so, maybe Derek helps out in Stiles’ class :)
> 
> oh my gosh, hahahah, THIS IS PERFECT. so. backstory, uhm. as some of you know, I sub at the local schools, and the other day I was in charge of one of the kindergarten classes, and IT WAS HELL ON EARTH. and there was a portion of the afternoon where the fifth graders came down to help, and I was all BLESS YOUR LITTLE SOULS, BLESSINGS UPON YOUR FAMILY, BLESSINGS UPON YOUR COW, because jesus christ, 25 kids to one teacher is insanity. This might be slightly inspired by that experience, is all I'm saying. (I didn't do first day though, sorry!)

"Oh thank God," Mrs. Leclerc says when Derek knocks on the door. Her glasses are crooked, and there's something that Derek can only hope is paint on her hemline. "I'm glad you're early, they're monsters today."

Lydia, at least, doesn't look the least bit intimidated. She carefully fixes her headband. Like going into battle. "Sugar?"

"It's Jackson's birthday," Mrs. Leclerc says desperately. "I tried to ban cupcakes, _I tried,_  do you have any idea what the PTA wanted to do to me? God forbid their special snowflake's special day goes unappreciated." There's a crash from somewhere behind her. Mrs. Leclerc whirls around. "Look who's here, kids! Our special friends - Lydia and Derek!"

The volume in the room instantly increases by a decibel, and Derek can't help wincing. Apparently werewolf hearing was not an acceptable excuse to stay away from the kindergarteners. Derek would like to call  _bullcrap_. 

"I want to hear  _Level One Voices_ ," Mrs Leclerc says crisply, and the sound recedes to a dull roar. "Thank you. Lydia, would you like to read them a book?"

"I'd love to," Lydia says, and how does she  _do_  that, Derek wonders - go from sweet as sugar in the classroom when she was grumbling about sticky hands and running noses the whole way down.  

"My book!" Jackson shrieks, and Derek really should have seen that coming - both Jackson's unconditional love for Lydia, and his insistence on the spotlight. "It's my birthday!"

Mrs. Leclerc's face makes it clear she's been hearing that all day. "Yes, Jackson, it is your birthday. What book would you like to choose?"

"The Lizard and the Sun," Jackson says promptly. 

"Reptile obsession still in full swing, then," Lydia notes, snagging the book out of Jackson's hand and ignoring his lovestruck face. On one hand, Derek felt bad for the kid - on the other, he'd already tried to sneak from the kindergarten lunch section to the upperclass one  _five times._

Mrs Leclerc nods. "I want Table 2 and Table 4 to go with Miss Lydia to the back carpet," and Derek awkwardly tried to dodge a dozen scrambling kindergarteners. "Table 1 can come with me to the chalkboard, and Table 3 can pick out a game with Derek."

"Chutes and Ladders!" Isaac immediately screeches, and Derek is inundated with cries of Candyland, Mousetrap, Pretty Pretty Princess, Sorry, and Trouble.

Derek is not doing Pretty Pretty Princess, because - no. Mrs Leclerc sometimes took pictures, to send around in the parent newsletters, and Derek would never recover from that one. Laura wouldn't let him.

"It's Allison's turn to pick," he says instead, and Allison grins at him. She'd recently lost one of her front teeth, which made the effect decidedly rakish. She also never picked Pretty Pretty Princess.

"Mousetrap!"

"Can you go get it from the back for us?" and Allison takes off running, with Scott and Matt trailing behind. Running seemed to be the kindergarteners' default state, despite the entire classroom being fifty feet long, tops. 

Derek then feels a tiny - and only slightly sticky - pair of arms wind its way around his legs.

"Hi Derek!" Stiles chirps, "I'm in your group!" and Derek feels a smile tug it's way onto his face. His parents (sort of) joked that his default state was grumpy, but even he wasn't immune to being hugged by small children. More was the pity. It was lucky Lydia was the only one around to see it, and she was mostly occupied with keeping Jackson off her lap.

"Hi Stiles. What are the rules about hugging the adults?"

"Not s'posed to," Stiles continues cheerfully. "Should I go to the time out rug?" Stiles spent a lot of time in the time-out rug. He was definitely on the more hyperactive end of the kindergarten spectrum. Even without sugar.  

"Are you going to stop hugging me?"

Stiles appeared to think about it for a second.

"You can't play the game if you're hugging me," Derek points out - rather reasonably, he'd like to think. Not that kindergarteners were big on reason. 

"Will you sit next to me?" Stiles asks. Eyes wide. Like a freaking Tarsier. "Then Scott can sit on my other side, an' then Allison, an' then Matt, an' then Greenberg."

What kindergartener went by Greenberg, honestly.  

"Sure," Derek says, and Stiles's arms immediately dropped. Little con man. "Table 3, let's go to the front rug!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who don't know, Pretty Pretty Princess involves completing a set of jewelry (and wearing it) to become a princess. I played that game until FOREVER, not even ashamed to tell you.


	7. Peter/Stiles, Derek/Scott; Peter chases Stiles down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for nevermind-the-moon, who prompted: Peter chasing Stiles down
> 
> (I would call this some kind of AU. Peter doesn't die in the first season? Peter is less of a hardass about creeping into Scott's mind and making him kill people? He becomes *very* curious about the boy who throws keys at him in the high school? Peter bites Stiles first and then Scott later to solidify the pack? ALL OF THE ABOVE? I don't know my brain doesn't work like that. Take it up with management.)

Stiles doesn't hear Peter until it's too late; until Peter is on top of him, a solid mass of Alpha werewolf in the center of Stiles's back, shoving him to the ground. It's too fast for Stiles to do more than push out his claws and slash at Peter's face, desperately, and it's too unskilled to be any kind of threat. Peter grips Stiles's wrist hard enough to break a human's. Begins to bend it back until Stiles retracts his claws and whines.

"I've  _told_  you," Peter says, and gives Stiles a shake - a singular  _shake_ , one hand on the back of his neck - so hard Stiles's teeth rattle. "You have to learn not to shift when you're attacked."

"I know -"

"Don't give yourself away," Peter continues, severe. "The best defense a werewolf has is pretending to be human. You can never regain the tactical advantage of being underestimated. Even when you're being hunted you should never lose control."

"I know, I  _know_ ," Stiles gripes, because he's heard this lecture before. Has he  _ever_. "I get it, it's just a little hard to curb the instincts when they're telling me to  _scratch out your eyes_."

Peter's eyes flash with amusement. Finally. "You should be nicer to your Alpha," he says,  and Stiles takes that as his cue to slide into Peter's lap. Still on his knees.

| |

Peter lets him. Peter lets Stiles do a lot of things he shouldn't, all told, but what's the point in coming out of a six year coma if you're not going to indulge yourself a little?

"But I did better that time, didn't I?" Stiles asks. "I did, come on, the bit with the river was inspired."

Stiles has been doing steadily better each time; Peter is just hunting harder. There's no use letting it go to Stiles's head though. 

"Better," Peter says, as though he begrudges the very word, but Stiles grins anyway. 

"Where's Scott? Did Derek find him?"

"A few minutes ago. I believe they're occupied." Or so the vaguely muffled sounds Peter hears would indicate. 

Stiles makes a face. "Ugh. In the woods, really?"

"Derek has never cared much for creature comforts."

"Well, we both know your nephew is a weirdo," Stiles says. "He should try banging Scott indoors sometime. Or at least in the back of his Camaro.  _I'd_  let Derek bang me in the back of that thing."

"Really." It isn't uncommon for non-familial packs to be polyamorous, or something like it, but Peter prefers that Derek and Scott stay away from Stiles in these matters. Peter has become possessive in his old age; or perhaps it's a side effect of becoming the Alpha.

Stiles shrugs. Deliberately guileless. Peter's little wolf in a darling ingenue's clothing. "You know, my dad won't be back home until morning," which sounds like a non-sequitur but isn't, oh, it isn't. 

"We prefer our creature comforts, you and I," Peter says, and nuzzles the bared hollow of Stiles's throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a Derek/Scott fic set in this 'verse forthcoming 
> 
> I pretty much 97% don't ship Derek/Scott, except for maybe a few fucked up circumstances and a really, really, really one-sided thing from Derek's side, but fic for you poor shippers is damn thin on the ground


	8. Peter/Matt, the Kanima's master's master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for wolfbad, who prompted: Peter/Matt, the kanima’s master’s master.

Peter has woken up to a strange new world, populated with another endless form most beautiful and most wonderful - with something he hadn’t seen on his way back, riding on the vapor trails of Lydia’s mind. There’s a kanima on the loose in Beacon Hills; a lizard-boy with a taste for vengeance, a taste for the leash, and could there be a more perfect present for Peter to give himself for his resurrection? 

It doesn’t take long for Peter to overhear that the kanima’s owner is a boy named Matt. A very broken boy, very angry, very eager for attention - very  _aware_  of what Peter is, perhaps most entrancingly, and Peter seduces him over the bestiary; perhaps  _lets himself be seduced_  is a more correct turn of phrase. At any rate: Matt is unsurprisingly needy but sweet and vicious by turns, and Peter curls around him afterwards - cuddles, if you like - until the smell of Matt is deep inside his nostrils, and the smell of the kanima too. 

Later, Peter will have research to do. What happens when the kanima’s master is killed? Will the kanima disappear? Become the property of whoever killed his master? Latch onto the next person he sees with a grudge? Because Peter has a grudge, oh yes, and Peter can be a killer, is a killer - but there’s no point in murdering the boy needlessly, is there? No, Peter thinks, listens to Matt murmur in his sleep. No, this could all work out quite nicely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and Peter maybe uses the kanima to help kill all at least one of the Alpha pack by telling Matt he’ll turn him once he’s an Alpha. does he? I don’t know. Matt would be a good beta, I think. I mean. For Peter. For a given value of ‘good’)


	9. Peter/Derek, teach you how to beg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for magdalyna, who prompted: Peter/Derek;teach you how to beg

Derek was never supposed to be Alpha. That much is obvious - patently obvious to anyone who bothers to look, obvious even to those with little knowledge of werewolves. Derek could be a leader, of a sort, with the right betas behind him, in the right set of circumstances, but he lacks the intrinsic drive to run a pack. The very essence of an Alpha. Posturing aside, Argents aside, Derek has always been the type to roll over and ask forgiveness. To give too easily to others - second chances, and thirds. He gives Scott more and more of a leash when he should yank the pup to the  _ground_. Lets two of his betas run off when the time has come to stand and fight. 

“Oh Derek,” Peter says. Soft and sad. Like when Derek was a child; had disobeyed the rules and tracked mud all over the house, or infested his bed with fleas. “Derek, Derek. You know -“

“I know.” Perhaps he meant it to come out as a growl? But the sound is sad and low. Lonely. 

Peter knows how Derek appears - a dark riddle wrapped in an enigma coated with angst and stubble - but the truth is that Derek is easy. Derek does half the work for Peter - never quite lets up on flagellating himself with his mistakes. Even when he was a child, Peter would find him running extra miles, doing extra drills, because his sister had beaten him at hide and seek. 

“You could be better,” Peter says, gentle, and Derek grits his teeth and nods. “You know you can do better. Laura could have done better,” and there’s the first flinch, like frost across glass. “Couldn’t she?”

“Yes,” and Derek’s bows forward, head down, and it is simple for Peter to run his fingers across the back of Derek’s neck. Peter thinks about sinking his nails in - dredging up memories of summer nights, of an Alpha with a full pack of strong betas; of Laura as a young child, the clear ringleader, of going toe-to-toe with Derek’s mother, the way only a mother and a teenager girl can, much less an Alpha and an Alpha-to-be. But it’s unnecessary. Derek may have hurt Peter earlier - beaten him, bloodied him, torn him apart like a dog with a chew toy - but in the end, Derek will always need this. 

“Derek?”

“Please,” Derek says, and exhales. Shoulders like a mountain slowly tumbling down. “Please.”


	10. Peter/Stiles, Peter catches Stiles on the internet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for marywimsical, who prompted: Peter catches Stiles on the Internet…
> 
>  
> 
> (I am pretty sure there are like 2934802385283 Stiles-centric fics that start like this, but come on, SO CLASSIC.)

“Interesting internet history,” Peter says, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin because when did Stiles’s bedroom turn into the local werewolf hangout,  _when_ , he’s pretty sure he did not actually sign up for this shit.

“Uhm,” is the first response that comes to mind and pops out of Stiles’s mouth, clever as it is, because he’s still half out of his hoodie, backpack in one hand, what’s left of a sandwich clenched between his teeth. Corned beef. His dad isn’t supposed to have so much sodium.

“Not to mention your schoolwork folder,” Peter says. “Hiding your porn under ‘history of male circumcision’ was an interesting choice.”

“I did actually write that paper,” Stiles protests. For something like posterity. It used to be in his ‘Ellie Goulding’ folder but then Scott got really into pop music, so.

“I love how everything’s on the internet, these days,” Peter continues conversationally, and swings around in the computer chair. “Not like when I was your age, and it was the same six, sticky Playboys someone had stolen from their father. Or - other, if your tastes varied. When you could get your hands on them.”

“This doesn’t sound like a story I want to hear,” Stiles says, and decides to just finish pulling his hoodie off, what the hell. Not like he’d be able to outrun Peter anyway.

Peter smiles. Way too many teeth for Stiles’s liking. “Now, your history project! I particularly enjoyed - what was it?  _Current Circumcision Trends and Guidelines_?” and Stiles can feel the flush rise in his face, the beating of his heart, the wave of shame and god knows what the fuck else - he’s not particularly thinking about it, it’s a survival skill - waft over towards Peter’s corner of the room. Stiles  _named_  the damn files, he knows what they are, really; has been able to pick up on the general running theme of strong, beefy guys holding down the young(er) twinky ones; the bondage, the power dynamics, a hint of violence and a sprinkling of what might be real, actual pain. He’s not saying it isn’t fucked up, considering his life’s current brand of trauma, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and so does Stiles’s dick, okay - sometimes he wants to come home, flip open his laptop, and get off hard enough to drop into a nice, dreamless sleep without worrying about werewolf-kanima-Argent flavored nightmares. Whatever does the trick.

Peter hits the space bar, and the sounds pouring out of Stiles’s tinny speakers are bad enough. He remembers, in particular, what happens in that damn .avi file. It’s a favorite; he’ll admit it, fuck, it’s a favorite, one of the ones where the sound is actually as good as the visual, if not better. Some stupid coach-student set-up - and let it be said here and now that Stiles has no feelings for Coach Finstock, not even in his pants feelings,  _especially_  in his pants feelings, thank you - a strained muscle, and a massage, then assplay and being fucked over a bench, brutally, hard enough that each slam in sounds more like a hit, brutal flesh on flesh. Lots of moaning, short and strained, punctuated with those fucking  _slaps_ , the kid’s eyes rolling back in his head like pictures of Renaissance saints - ecstatic, mindless, beautiful, and Stiles  _wants_  that. Tries to imagine it when he gets himself off, getting the actual daylights fucked out of him.

“Would you like that? Peter asks. Mostly… curious, as far as Stiles can tell. Eyes flickering between Stiles and the computer screen. “Someone to fuck you?”

And Stiles has actually dropped his sandwich, somewhere in here - bits of it mashed between his fingers, soft bread full of delicious preservatives, mustard. Corned beef slipping to the ground.

“Someone to hold you down?” Peter continues. He doesn’t really resemble the hulking gym bunny on screen, true, but they both know he could easily overpower Stiles. Any time he wanted.

“I -” Stiles starts, but he doesn’t - he’s not sure where to fucking go from there. Doesn’t know what might really, actually work, because he’s got a pitiable amount of real life evidence to build on. He wants the bliss, he thinks; wants the quiet, wants the racing of his brain to stop, just for a little while. Is that something someone could fuck out of him - a state someone could fuck him into?

“It might be a start,” he says, finally, moans from the computer turning into piteous little mewls.  Getting fucked hard enough that your toes curl, your voice strained and grunted and guttural, splayed out and limp, uncaring. Someone’s hand on the back of your neck, pressing down, but without the adrenaline rush to get away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last for tonight :)


	11. Peter/Stiles, the promised land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Anonymous, who prompted Peter/Stiles, ‘I’ve been in your body and it was a carnival ride’
> 
> I can't resist Richard Siken, so - this happened. Triggers for brief mentions of cancer, blood, and... kind of dark fic.

Stiles doesn’t know exactly when it slid from bad to worse, doesn’t know when his life turned from the occasional adrenaline-pumping life or death situation to a twenty-four-seven sudden death match with the world - in a way it always was; Stiles knows this, logically, knows that he could always have gone at any moment: brain aneurism, lacrosse injury, a too slick road on worn down tires - but it’s getting harder and harder to maintain any kind of blissful ignorance at all, to think the odds are anything but stacked against them. 

Things Stiles does know: He’s hungry like his stomach’s caving in and eating itself. His head feels like it’s filled with knives. He hasn’t seen his dad in three days. Stiles would think he’s having a panic attack, but his chest has been this tight for weeks. It’s starting to become familiar - the blurred edges of his vision, the way everything he says comes out a little too high, a little too short, like a bad imitation of Marilyn Monroe, and Stiles knows too many drag queens to have a bad imitation of Marilyn, thank you very much.

Stiles never thought he’d look back on those first few weeks after his mom died and think, well, cancer’s not so bad is it? It’s a time bomb, sure, wicking away life bit by bit, it’s painful, it’s  _excruciating_ , but it didn’t feel like every step was Russian Roulette, and there was remarkably little blood, all told. Stiles is sick of blood - the tang of it, the almost greasy feel of it, slick to sticky in a matter of moments, whole piles of Stiles’s clothing going through cold rinse after cold rinse. He’s digging it out from under his fingernails now, idly, like some girls pick off nail polish.

He’s tired, he thinks, so desperately fucking tired. Tired of being a human in a den of werewolves, tired of being constantly bruised, tired of lying to his father, tired of lying  _badly_ , tired of watching the lies fall into the widening space between them. Tired of being the one coming up with the lies. Tired of playing messenger boy between Pack Hale and Pack McCall and the not-so-neutral Argents and on one  _very_  special occasion the Alpha Pack themselves. He’s got the gift of gab, Stiles, and he’s bargained back Lydia’s life with it, bargained back his and Scott’s and Derek’s too, but he can’t help but worry that someday someone’s going to send a message not in his mouth but with his blood. That all his terrible lies aren’t going to matter.

He’s caught in the middle of one now, stuck in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, some part of Nevada he’s never been to and never needed to see, really, though he might as well pretend it was on his bucket list, for fun. It’s part of their last ditch running-to-ground strategy, half Lydia’s mathematics and half Stiles’s eye for hiding when he has to, calculated to stay out of the way of the Alpha Pack, to keep them hunting as long as possible. Scott is still in Beacon Hills, holding down a half-assed allegiance with the Argents, watching his mother and Stiles’s father; Boyd and Lydia are off in one direction, Derek and Isaac in another, and Peter is sitting across the room from Stiles. He’s been giving Stiles… not  _space_ , exactly, because Peter has too much presence to give space even if he wanted to, but he doesn’t talk as much as usual, and somehow the only thing worse than Peter talking is when he chooses not to. When he watches, eyes bright, more like a bird of prey than any wolf Stiles has ever seen. Too curious.

Stiles knows what he does next isn’t smart, or safe, or even  _sane_ , not as a choice, but none of his choices lately have seemed smart or safe or sane, or even good. And the thing no one tells you about being broken down, being vulnerable, is that it never feels like someone is taking advantage of you – it feels like they’re taking  _care_  of you, and if Peter’s particular brand of care involves stitching Stiles up, involves whiskey from the hotel minibar and bloodstained clothes tossed in the cold sink, involves pressing leaden kisses to Stiles’s eyelids, his bruised knuckles, involves splitting Stiles open in a rush of the good adrenaline-endorphin-accomplished pain Stiles is coming to associate with killing, at least blood tastes different in Peter’s mouth. Stiles doesn’t have any complaints; on a scale of more lies to breaking down this barely even registers.

Peter brings him a burger after, loaded, cheese and pickles, lettuce, mustard mayo ketchup, dripping all over his fingers until Stiles licks them clean. It tastes better than anything he’s had for a month, and he doesn’t mind that Peter watches with the same bright avarice he watched Stiles bleed.


	12. Isaac-gen, family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Verstehen1, who prompted - "You have no idea how tempted I am to ask for rule63 Derek and Peter. JUST BECAUSE. OR. Something about any of the absent parents of one of the characters (Stiles's mom, Scott's dad, the Hales, Isaac's mother, etc.)."
> 
> I feel like Isaac had been shortchanged, so far, so this happened.

Isaac’s mother was a librarian, once upon a time. He’d gotten his love of reading from her. He can still recite Fox in Socks by heart, and he was probably the only third grader in Beacon Hills to ever know what anapestic tetrameter was. Sometimes when Isaac’s bored he rewrites his homework so it scans.

 

Camden left when Isaac was ten. Isaac had cried at the airport, then tried to hide it by sulking in his sweatshirt. He’d been angry about it – angry for crying, which was weak, and angry at Camden for making him feel this way. He didn’t even say goodbye when the time came. He hates himself for that, for missing his only chance, but Isaac hates Camden for it too, hates him with the intense, forever-and-always passion of a child with no real understanding of consequences, of true emotional hurt. Camden left him alone. Alone in the room they used to share, alone in that damn house. There was no one to read Harry Potter with, no one to drive him to school in the mornings, no one to split a cheese pizza with when his parents had supreme.

At the time, it had seemed like the height of tragedy.

 

Isaac’s mother left after Camden died. Not immediately after. It wasn’t like she’d skipped out after the funeral and no one ever saw her again, though maybe that would have been better - maybe if it had all happened at once, maybe if someone had given his father sympathy  _then_  – but the leaving came later, and everyone’s sympathy for the Laheys had collectively dried up, and it was Isaac and his father alone in a house that was too big, too empty. There was no one to run interference, no way Isaac could steal a plate of his mother’s meatloaf and eat it alone in his own room, ears strained for the broken bits of conversation that wafted upstairs, because there was no meatloaf and there was no conversation. Dinners came from boxes, Velveeta, Hamburger Helper; Isaac held the conversation up by himself, and Isaac’s dad drank more and more, steadily. Isaac learned to make a lot of casseroles that first year after his mother left, progressively less crunchy and usually less burnt, but the food had been one of those things that never really made a difference in the end.

 

The thing of it is, Isaac doesn’t blame her. Because when he got the chance, he ran too.

 

Isaac had gotten his mother’s curly but not her freckles, her singing voice but his father’s lack of rhythm. Camden had her eyes, the same mischievous tilt at the corners, while Isaac’s and their father’s had been plainer. Camden had her easy way with people, the kind of smile that made other people smile. Isaac had always been quieter. Less friendly. And wasn’t that part of the problem, Isaac thought sometimes, that only the silence had been left behind?

They’d all been allergic to strawberries, though Isaac wasn’t anymore. He’d eaten one the other week, absently, just to see. They were different than he’d remembered – sharper, almost too sweet - and he’d given the rest to Scott without a word.

 

Isaac still thinks, sometimes, that if Camden had just gone to fucking college. Had stayed home, or close enough – had gotten an apartment and a girlfriend and a normal job, he wouldn’t have died before Isaac turned twelve. Wouldn’t have been sent home in a box, with a shroud made out of an American flag.

It had been the only thing Isaac’s mother took when she left.

 

He remembers she was a nice person. Not aggressively nice, not fake manufactured nice, but sweet. The kind of sweet that charmed just about everyone, and made you want to be nice to her too. It only became more intense after Camden died – she’d smiled less, but everything else became somehow enhanced by the frailty, the tragedy pouring off of her in waves. She’d seemed a second away from crying at any moment, but instead of making her ugly and worn it made her luminescent, a Tenebrist painting with bright eyes and dark hair. People called her ma’am a lot, held doors open, offered their seats, asked if she was alright, was there someone they could call - men, in particular, would ask, while looking at her ring finger.

“I’m fine,” she say, “thank you very much, you’re so kind,” almost fervently polite, and Isaac still doesn’t know if when she left she went with one of those men.

 

Looking back, Isaac can see that losing Camden was too much for her – always would have been, no matter how it happened. After that, she couldn’t believe in a benevolent universe anymore. It shattered something at the root of her, in her very foundations. It made her give up.

It took longer than that for Isaac, took another death, but he understands the same particular feeling of that betrayal. 

 

Derek doesn’t remind Isaac of his mother. Or his father, really, which might be what most of them think. Derek had broken Isaac’s arm, his wrists, his ribs, and dislocated his shoulder three separate times, but it doesn’t stick, not the way it used to, and he would never chain Isaac up in a freezer. Derek and Isaac don’t exist at cross-purposes – they’re simpatico, brothers-in-arms. Derek knows what it’s like to lose, to be accused of murdering your family when the only thing you ever wanted was for it to be fixed. When Erica and Boyd are gone, Derek doesn’t look at Isaac like he was left with the worst of the bunch, like he wishes someone else were sitting there instead. He doesn’t see anything but Isaac.

That’s all Isaac really wanted, in the end. For someone to see.


	13. Danny/Stiles, fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny/Stiles, fingers, for bicskill

Stiles’s most obvious asset is his mouth. It’s also his most obvious drawback, Danny thinks - Stiles even talks in his sleep, for fuck’s sake - but some of the best things are like that: a delicate balance, where too much or too little spoiling the whole thing. Not that Stiles is delicate. Not that Stiles is anything like delicate. Sure, more of a tempest in a teacup than bull in a china shop, but delicate? No. 

“You’re staring again,” Stiles says. He’s got one-eye cracked open, and there are crease lines from the pillow on his face. It’s actually incredibly unattractive. “I had the creepy crawly sensation of being watched. Taking lessons from Derek?”

“Derek does his best to avoid being in the same room with me,” Danny says. He thinks it’s because his introduction to Derek involved Stiles dangling Derek like a piece of meat in front of him, but it might also be that once Danny found out why Jackson had been acting so weird, he’d tried to break his fist on Derek’s face. Gorgeous abs only take Danny’s goodwill so far.

“Than you are luckier than me,” Stiles yawns. “I mean, are you sure he’s never in the room with you? He likes to lurk. It’s kind of his thing.” And Stiles stretches, arms resting up above his head, fingers twisting in his hair until it peaks into little tufts. ”He could be here now!” 

It had taken Danny a stupidly long time to pay attention to Stiles’s hands - too often shoved into pockets, or tucked away in his hoodies, or just flying around when he talked. Danny spent so long being distracted by Stiles’s mouth, and all the crap coming out of it, that he missed everything those hands were saying.

Danny shrugs. “Well, if he is, he’s going to get a show,” because Danny has his boyfriend sprawled over his bed, shirt pulled up and twisted around, with his stupid pillow creases on his face and his stupid adorable bedhead, and Danny’ll be damned if he’s wasting that opportunity. 

“Am I getting lucky?” Stiles says, delighted - who asks that, seriously - hands already on Danny’s hips and pulling him down. “Derek, dude, if you’re under the bed, this is your last chance to run.”

“Stop talking,” Danny says. He runs one hand up the length of Stiles’s neck, until Stiles’s head tips back into the pillow, and his Adam’s apple juts out far enough that Danny can see every nervous swallow, every breath. “And Derek, if you’re hiding in the closet -“

The burst of Stiles’s laughter is worth the sophomoric joke.


	14. Kate/Derek, nape/neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate/Derek, Nape/Neck for anonymous

This hotel is different from the last one, but smells the same: like dozens of people, industrial strength cleaners floating around the room and sunk into the sheets, pizza drifting in from somewhere down the hall, and Derek buries his nose in the back of Kate’s neck to escape. There’s chlorine, soap. A familiar human smell, with a tinge of Kate underneath - charcoal and sugar, something dark and sharp - and Derek can’t keep licking once at the nape of Kate’s neck, helpless as she laughs. 

There isn’t a lot of time for this, usually, and when there is Kate is almost always the big spoon. She is a little larger than him, Derek reasons. Solid with muscle, the way a lifeguard should be, and a bit taller, because Derek hasn’t hit his last growth spurt. She likes to hold onto him tightly - too tightly? Derek sometimes worries. Should he complain? Should he squirm under her arm, even as he wants to still, to go boneless, to let Kate in more than he already has? Derek thinks he’s good at playing human, most of the time, but his parents never really sat him down with a point-by-point about this - and usually Derek watches the crack of light coming in under the door grow dimmer and dimmer, and he feels like a teenage Cinderella, under a spell to be home before dinner. 

“You okay, sweetie?” Kate asks, ribcage swelling under Derek’s hand as she talks. “You’re quiet today.”

“Just thinking,” he says, and Kate laughs again. 

“Oh, baby,” she says, one of a handful of nicknames she has for him - sweetheart, honey, doll-face, sugar - “Baby, thinking isn’t going to do either of us any good,” and rolls over to push him down into the bed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (my original thought was pegging, and then I was like NAH HUMAN[ish] SHIELD)  
> (I might still write pegging, but I’m just saying)


	15. scott/peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for ladyw1nter's prompt 'I love you like a knife loves skin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full of gratuitous poetry references. Because Peter seems like the type.

Peter will never love anyone the way he loves Scott. Never has - not in the twilight of life before the fire - never will, never can - not in the ashes of all that came after. The hows and whys elude him sometimes, the precision to which Peter’s hind brain honed in on Scott in the woods that night,  _yeshimnow_. It’s not just because Scott is his first bitten beta, not just for the ill-gotten mix of pride and ecstasy and ownership that all Alphas get, because it could be nothing so run-of-the-mill, nothing so easily solved by dying again. The bond between a Beta and their Alpha is far from guaranteed, and little more than instinctual. Peter prides himself on listening to his instincts, on understanding them, but he refuses to be ruled by them. Not any longer.

It may be because Scott inspires a loyalty that Peter can only hope to reflect, can only hope to have for his own one day. Because Peter is sharp and Scott is easy, because Scott is soft, because Scott feels like a resting place for all the hard parts of Peter, the barbs and bristles and spikes beyond the claws and fangs. It may be because Peter’s teeth have pierced his flesh the once already, easy, and right, and because Peter will have his pound one way or another. Because to build something new you must first burn something down, or tear it to the ground, or bleed it dry, and Peter has spent six years desiccated and waiting. Because Scott is so beautiful when he’s bleeding. Because he will heal around what Peter will tear from him, will gouge gleefully and without apology. Because if you knock Scott down six times he will get up seven times, eight, a hundred, and Peter will have the pleasure of scattering him again.

I will love you as certain dark things are to be loved. I will love you with two legacies, will show you boundaries of pain; I will love you most mad and moonly, as you are and as what you can be, as what I will make you. I will love you like a knife loves skin, he thinks, he  _promises_ , as painful and inevitable, as colorful, as sharp and stinging.


	16. erica&victoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria/Erica, efficient interrogation methods don't have to be about pain (but they can still be plenty cruel). for theragnarokd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where Victoria isn’t dead la la la can’t hear you.
> 
> and sorry for all ‘the girl’ epithets but I think Victoria keeps herself removed that way

 

One of the best things about being a woman, Victoria had come to find, was how often people underestimated you because of it. There wasn’t an Argent who did, of course, and none of the other hunters who worked with them would dare to make that mistake, but nevertheless. It was a trap even other women fell prey to, and Victoria was very, very good at setting traps.

"Tilt your head back," she said. Victoria Argent, Hunter, was tempted to grab a fistful of those dyed blonde waves and yank her head back. Victoria Argent, Mother, had a little more patience.

"Why," came the weary reply. "So you can jab the cattle prod in my  _face_  this time?”

"So you can have a drink of water," Victoria said, evenly. "Unless you think someone else around here is going to offer you one."

A smudgy black eye from behind the curtain of hair. Well. Progress of a sort.

"Tilt your head back."  _Don’t make me say it again_. The girl’s hands were shackled behind her back, tied to her arms. Exceedingly uncomfortable, and almost impossible to balance off of her knees. No cattle prod, though Victoria did have a few wolfsbane coated knives. In case.

"Okay," and Victoria held the cup to her lips. A plastic cup full of tepid well water, not particularly appetizing, but she gulped it down as though expecting it to be taken away any moment. Victoria was fonder of far more insidious cruelties.

After she was tempted to wipe the girl’s cheeks, her chin, but that was perhaps too much too quickly. Just because she was incapable of shifting doesn’t mean she was incapable of biting.

"You’re welcome," Victoria said instead, steel and no-nonsense, and there was hot color in the girl’s face before she could wish it away.

"Thank you for not torturing me," came back instead, sarcastic and pointed. The lowest form of wit, as always.

"Maybe I have a problem with torturing children the same age as my daughter." And she might have, if she thought they were children at all.

Just a blink this time, and a barely there curve of her lip. Well.

"Would you like more?" Victoria asked instead.

The girl started. “I… yes.”

Victoria poured another half glass of water from the pitcher she’d brought down. A sunny yellow thing she’d bought at their last posting. Fiestaware. Victoria held the cup to the girl’s mouth once again, and watched her gulp at the water, frantic.

After a moment she put one cautious hand to the back of the girl’s neck, and ignored the way she stiffened.

"Slower," Victoria said. "Even werewolves can make themselves sick."

The girl chuckled weakly. Almost a cough. “Now you tell me.” But she drank slower, and Victoria pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear when she was done.

Her husband’s footsteps on the stairs, loud enough to be heard even in the cell.

Victoria stood, swift, glass and pitcher in hand. Out the door before anything else could be said.

| |

It was easy enough to find time to sneak down a few times a week. To bring the girl water, to turn off the electrical current for a few brief moments. To come down smelling of cookies and fresh laundry, smells that would linger in the room when she left.

"I’m sorry about your friend," she said one afternoon, in between the first and second glasses. Victoria often used the time to touch, to bring the girl up to her knees, to shift her painfully stiff position on the floor.

"What?"

Victoria let her gaze drop, let the corner of her mouth tighten.  _They didn’t tell you_  in every line of her face. It wasn’t particularly surprising when the girl started to cry, even if Victoria hadn’t counted on how silently she’d do it.

"I’m sorry," she said, "I’m so sorry, sweetie," and wrapped her arms around the girl. Up against a mother’s breast. She’d learned to lie to werewolves a long time ago, even if this one was aware enough to pay attention to her heartbeat.

It would take a few weeks, Victoria thought idly. A few more beatings, a few more glasses of water. A little bit more time to slot fully into the position of mother, or wherever the girl’s affections might take her. She might tell Victoria everything she knew, or she might have to ‘freed’ and chased down to where she ran to ground. They needed her body to crack the other one, it seemed, so either plan would work well enough.

"Men," she sighed, as the girl snuffled against her collarbone. "They’re the real beasts," and laid her cheek down against the top of the girl’s head as she nodded, helpless. Tired and broken down, starved in so many ways, fattened only for the slaughter.


	17. Peter/Stiles, the Sheriff finds out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff finds out about Peter/Stiles, for anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [part of me thinks this only ends in DEATH]

"Peter Hale?" John said, slowly.

"Ye—"

"Former Alpha Peter Hale?’

"Yea—"

"Mass murderer Peter Hale?"

"Well —"

 _"That_  Peter Hale?”

"He is very, very sorry for all the mass murdering," Stiles said hurriedly, as Peter nodded beside him. Smirk lurking at the edge of his lips. "He was not in his right mind, Argent fire-induced coma and all, and it will never happen again."

"Never, ever," Peter said, solemn, before holding up two fingers in a Boy Scout salute.

[ORRRRRR]

"I’m getting my shotgun," John said, evenly, before turning on his heel and stomping down the stairs.

"Uhm," Stiles said. "So that was the worst possible way to find out."

Peter stretched out on the bed beside him. “He  _did_  have to find out sometime.”

"Not while we were in bed." Stiles frowned. "Kind of surprised he kept his head long enough to not just strangle you, to be honest."

Peter shrugged. “He has a better chance with the shotgun.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “Especially… yeah, he might have gotten wolfsbane bullets from Deaton?”

It took Stiles the rest of the day to vacuum all of the glass shards from his bedroom floor, but his boyfriend was still alive and his father not a murderer so in the end it probably could actually have gone worse.

[OR DOOR NUMBER THREE]

"Is that a hickey?" John asked, and took another sip of his coffee.

Stiles’s hand went to his neck to quickly it made a slapping sound. A guilty, guilty, slapping sound. “No?” he said hopefully. “No, you are totally hallucinating.”

"I see. Are you and your hallucinations being safe?"

"Well," Stiles said. "Dad, you see - with werewolves—"

“ _Yes or no_ ,” John said from behind his newspaper.

"Yes. Absolutely. 100% safe. 100% consensual."

"Good. I expect him to be at dinner tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Then —  _"Him_? When did it go from ‘not in that outfit’ to dicks dicks dicks—”

"STILES. Do you know any girl werewolves?"

"Oh. Good point. Way to use those deductive skills. Uhm. Yeah. I’ll… tell him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (also this makes me want a fic where Stiles begs and pleads* the werewolves to be his fake boyfriend - no, not  _you_ , Scott, you’re my brother, the thought of you giving me a hickey makes me want to hurl, I don’t think I can hold your hand without giggling; Isaac is dating Allison, the twins are dating Danny and Lydia, so it has to be Derek. DEREK, COME ON, YOU OWE ME, and Derek just looks at him like Why the FUCK do I owe you? and Stiles is like please please please please please please please please please and possibly Peter threatens him and SHENANIGANS)
> 
> *I originally typed ‘pleases the werewolves’ and wow, not that type of fic.


	18. Ennis/Derek, coercion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ennis/bb!Derek - Talia owing him one wasn't enough to get Ennis to bite Paige; Derek need to provide further incentive. For wolfbad.
> 
> tw for underage, coercion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MAN, I LOVE COERCION. I literally have no handle on Ennis ‘characterization’, so. I’ve done what I could.

"It’s a big responsibility," Ennis says. "She’d be a part of my pack."

"She wouldn’t!" Derek protests. "She wouldn’t, really, she’d be a part of ours. I know mom wouldn’t turn her away if she was a werewolf."

"That’s another thing. I don’t want to upset your mother." Ennis lowers his voice. "You know how it is."

"How  _she_  is,” Derek says. Petulant. “She doesn’t understand!” One hand running through his hair, spiking it up in frustration.

Ennis shrugs. “I want to help you, kid, but you have to see how I’d be putting my neck on the line, here. Can’t just do that for free.”

Ennis watches Derek’s little brow wrinkle. “What would you want?”

| |

Derek is almost as sweet as he imaged. Almost as tall as a man, but not really, not anywhere close. Nearly hairless, slim and embarrassed about his body, even as Ennis tells him not to be. He wants to fuck him, to be the first man inside him, but there isn’t time. There’s no way Talia wouldn’t smell that on her little boy, and Ennis wouldn’t go toe to toe with Talia Hale on a good day, much less a bad one.

This will have to do.

"Yeah," Ennis says, face pressed into Derek’s hair, the soft curl of it at the edge of his face. "Good, Derek, very good," as he slides another second finger into Derek, wet from the boy’s own mouth. Derek is already wet himself, bruised from where Ennis had stuck his tongue inside him, had snarled and rutted against him with a werewolf’s snout. Derek’s stilted moans do nothing more than turn him on more, the smell of his fresh arousal easy for both of them to pick out of the air. His own hard dick rubs up against Derek, jerkily sliding in the cleft of his ass, across his taint, against where his own hand holds Derek open, a sweet friction against the boy’s hot, smooth skin.

Derek is breathing rapidly, breathing  _hard_ , as if he’s run for miles. The most like prey Ennis has ever seen him, this cocky, happy boy, and it makes Ennis want to bite him,  _bite_ him, but that means too much for werewolves, too much for Alphas.

"Good boy," Ennis says instead, "good boy, you know what you have to do," and Derek growls, his own clawed hand jerking himself off, clenching and unclenching around Ennis’s fingers, on edge, and Ennis shoves a third finger in, no warning, just for the sound Derek makes.

Ennis tries to hold him still when he comes, legs thrashing, snarling, knocking his head back against Ennis’s shoulder.

| |

"Make sure you take a shower before your mom gets a whiff of you. I bet she’d like this even less, hmm?"

Derek nodded, cheeks still tracked with tears.

"Good. Go on. I’ll go find your little girlfriend." Ennis watches the little wolf scamper off, naked, still clutching his clothes.

A promise is a promise.


	19. Derek/Stiles/Laurent/Corey, nerves more 'verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm obsessed with DerekStilesLaurent, and I would die from joy if you wrote a lil something that includes male!Cora in the mix <3"  
> for anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the [nerves more](../../496429) 'verse
> 
> SO I FORGOT ALL ABOUT CORA IN THE CONTEXT OF THIS ‘VERSE? AMAZING PROMPT IS AMAZING
> 
> since Stiles + co canonically don’t remember Cora despite being basically the same age, I made up a random reason for it. because drunk cats. also none of that True Alpha bullshit. Laurent was always going to be an Alpha.)
> 
> cw for foursome but not really incest? mostly Stiles-centric. 
> 
> this is 1.5k why even. bits of not!fic.

It wasn’t that Stiles forgot about Corey. He hadn’t. The Hales weren’t really the forgettable types, and they got even less forgettable once Stiles had found out they were werewolves. It was more that both of his boyfriends - Stiles still got a little shiver over that,  _his boyfriends_  - kept his attention pretty well focused. He’d never spent much time with Corey anyway, who’d gone to the East Coast with another pack in what had been explained to Stiles as something like a crossbreed between an exchange program and a potential arranged marriage. 

"Packs shouldn’t be just family members," Peter had explained to Stiles, when he’d asked. "Otherwise the pack stagnates. There needs to be new blood. Bitten werewolves, sometimes" - like Talia’s husband - "but born werewolves too." If Corey decided to mate with one of the other werewolves, or to stay with the Veum pack, that was well and good but no one would make him. And when one of Gunnar’s granddaughters was old enough, in a few years, she would do the same thing Corey had.

"Weird," Stiles had declared. And then shrugged, because to be honest a lot of what werewolves did was  _weird._ Corey being farmed out for a marriage didn’t even crack the top ten.

It was kind of surprising when Cory showed up on their doorstop one morning though.

"Uh," Stiles said, because when the doorbell rang he’d been expecting someone more along the lines of the UPS guy dropping off Stiles’s impulsive weekly Amazon purchase. Not a stranger with a duffle bag. "Hi?"

"Hello, Stiles," Stranger Danger said, with a toothy smile. And that cemented it.  _Werewolf._  Stiles had gotten pretty good at spotting them over the years. He liked to play a game, sometimes - Gym Bunny or Werewolf? - because he’d yet to meet a werewolf who wasn’t muscled, even in a streamlined, lethal killing machine super spy kind of way. 

"LAURENT!" Stiles yelled. "PRETTY SURE THERE’S SOMEONE TO SEE YOU."  Laurent had finally manifested as an Alpha in Stiles’s sophomore year, when they’d rented a house to themselves. “Established a territory,” Laurent had explained satisfactorily, and Stiles and Derek exchanged a  _look_. Laurent had been insufferable for a while, and then there’d been all sorts of protocol with Alphas in surrounding territories, and then whenever another werewolf intended to stay within the territory there was  _more protocol_ , and Stiles mostly sat back and rolled his eyes while Derek played terrifying stoic right hand man. "Laurent’ll be down in a second," he said, and started to walk back to the kitchen. Procrastinating on term papers waited for no man. 

"I can’t believe you don’t remember me, little Stilinski!" the guy yelled after him, and did *everyone* think he was little? What even —

And he realized.

Oh God.

 _Another_  one of them.

| |

(la la la oh god I am not writing an actual fic, Corey welcomed into the pack, Talia thought it was a good idea to go visit his brothers and get his West Coast bearings back, Laurent and Derek are pretty overjoyed to see their little brother again - Laurent seemingly more than Derek, because Derek is too stoic for his own good, and Laurent doesn’t give a fuck what he’s supposed to be like, if what he acts like is in line with being a Big Bad Alpha. Cue wolfy hangouts, running in a nearby preserve and hunting things and then Derek and Laurent coming back home and nailing Stiles to the mattress while he weakly not-really-protests. also crap tense changes at the end)

Corey gave Stiles the weirdest look at lunch the next day.

Stiles gave him the hairy eyeball right back until Corey cleared his throat, like, “so I didn’t realize…”

"Oh!" Stiles said, because… yeah, that can be a little bit of a surprise for anyone. The other Hales had accepted it pretty readily, but they’d also had a long time to get used to the writing on the wall. Stiles’s dad had been a little more surprised, and sometimes still got a little wiggy around the holidays. And sometimes he went to that weird over-supportive place, but at least Stiles knew how much his dad loved him. "Yeah, Derek and Laurent. And me. Obviously."

"Right."

Stiles took another sip of his coffee. “Didn’t you smell it, though?”

Corey looked a little embarrassed. “You  _smelled_  like them, sure, but the whole house smells like the three of you. This was…” A nose twitch that Stiles was going to interpret as ‘sex smell’.

"Ah. Right. So this is sufficiently awkward," he said brightly. "I’ll go shower."

"No!" Corey said, one hand reaching out before he snatched it back, like he’d come up against an ash barrier. "You don’t -" He cleared his throat. "It smells… right, just."

"Weird," Stiles said slowly. "Weird at first, right?"

Corey nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

"Welcome to my life," Stiles sighed, and held out his fist. Corey bumped it, cautiously, and they smiled at each other until Stiles felt his cheeks flush, and he mumbled out some excuse to run upstairs and push the backs of hands against his face, idiot idiot idiot.

CUT TO SOME TIME LATER, DEREK AND STILES AND LAURENT TOGETHER LIKE USUAL, Laurent pushing Stiles back onto the bed and holding him in place while Derek saunters in naked as the day he was born, fresh out of the shower. Stiles moaning a little when Derek settles on the bed next to him and starts touching Stiles slow, exploratory. Proprietary. Undoing Stiles like a present.

"Good boy," Laurent says, idly, sitting back as Derek kneels in between Stiles’s legs and takes Stiles’s cock into his mouth. Stiles moaning and shivering, trying not to move. "Always our good boy, our little Stilinski," soft and pleased, running one hand through Stiles’s hair, grown out just for moments like this, for the pleasing catch around Laurent’s fingertips, the scratch of his nails on Stiles’s scalp. 

"Yes," Stiles says, "yours," DerekandLaurent’s, LaurentandDerek’s, boundaries what boundaries? 

AND THEN Laurent starts talking about Corey too, about how they’ve seen Stiles watching him, wanting him, the way he smells like arousal and the way his heart beats faster, that he wants Corey too, greedy needy thing, and Stiles teeters on the edge of mortification for a half second before Laurent leans down to kiss him, to soothe him, “shh, shh, it’s okay,” while Derek keeps sucking him, growling in the back of his throat, sweet vibration with the knife’s edge of danger.

"Sorry," Stiles says. "I just—" God, he’s greedy and weird and WIRED WRONG, wanting yet another Hale sibling. 

"It’s okay," Laurent says. "Corey," and Stiles blinks at him a few times, waiting for Laurent to finish the sentence. Not really understanding until Corey walks into the room.

"Alpha," he says.

Laurent puts one hand on Corey’s face, sweeps from his cheekbone to the back of his neck. Smiles. “Little brother,” as Stiles pushes his face into Laurent’s thigh. Just - overwhelmed, surprised and happy and embarrassed and  _turned on_ , and when Corey settles onto the other side of the bed, one hand touching just the corner of Stiles’s mouth, there’s a moment where he forgets to breathe. 

"You can say no," Corey says, lightly. Derek’s coloring but eyes like Laurent’s, the same mischievous smile Stiles has seen on Talia.

"What am I, dumb?" Stiles blurts out, independent of any thought, and Derek’s choked off chuckle is what sends him over the edge. It feels good, all these hands, all this skin. All this want, all this  _love_. “I want you too,” he says, when he gets his breath back, “all of you,” and Derek shifts him onto his side for Corey to kiss, to acquaint themselves with the shape of each other’s mouths. Laurent slides behind Stiles, bites him on the meat of his shoulder as he preps him, and Derek watches at the foot of the bed, lazily fisting his own cock.

TEAM HOT FOURSOMES FOREVER.

(also Corey gets really angry sometimes because he didn’t like spending all the time away from his Pack, didn’t like being shipped away and not allowed to come back. The resentment flares up. He and Derek spent a lot of time doing destructive things on their own. But Corey also like a lot of the ‘young’ pop culture things Stiles does, so they bond over BSG and DC fucking up all the things, and go see the new Riddick movie together. Corey is the first person Laurent really ‘accepts’ into their pack (Derek and Stiles kind of came prepackaged) so they have an almost paternal relationship. and lo, it was good)


	20. Peter/Stiles, knotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter/stiles, knotting, for a-little-more-ultra-violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not!fic in the beginning. these are little tumblr prompts, what do you want from me
> 
> rule 63!Stiles

WEIRDLY I was having a rule 63!Stiles/Peter dream last night where they were either on a road trip or Peter had kidnapped Stiles (I imagine traveling with Peter is six of one, a half dozen of another) but which does make kind of a difference in whether it was a seduction or just kind of grooming behavior BUT ANYWAY it of course ended with knotting! Peter and Stiles holed up in some dingy motel, lying in bed together all sweaty and post-coital, with Peter nuzzling the skin of Stiles’s neck, under her jawline, behind her ear. All of the places that smell like her, pure and simple and intoxicating. They’ve had penetrative sex but Peter hasn’t knotted her yet, hasn’t wanted to scare her off, maybe, or just enjoying ticking off every little sex thing he can, like a list; knocking down every little wall she has with orgasms. But today - today feels right and good and sex-hazed. Perfect. Stiles doesn’t even protest when Peter sits up and pulls her onto his lap. Round Two is par for the course, if not Three or Four, and he settles her down so perfectly, he slides into her so smoothly, hands so sure on her hips she just sighs and curls her arms around his neck, opens her mouth for more sweet kisses, wet and sloppy and very warm.

"Gonna make you mine," he mutters, and she’s startled, for a moment, thinking he’s going to bite her, maybe, even though he isn’t an Alpha. She doesn’t write anything off anymore. "Gonna  _knot_  you,” slurring his words like he was drunk, “fill you up,” and Stiles’s first reaction isn’t even surprise so much as  _want_ , a little shiver that runs up her spine and rattles around in her head.

"Yeah?" almost shy, even as she digs her nails into the back of Peter’s neck, forces his mouth from her neck and makes him look her square in the face. "You want that? Wanna knot me?" and Peter’s reaction is ferocious, animalistic, flashing werewolf eyes and claws scraping her back, the hunch of his shoulders that means he’s fighting the change to his beta form. He pushes her back down to the bed, pushes her thighs apart to shove himself between them while she laughs, breathless, and reaches up to run her fingers over the marks on her throat, red and raised.

"Feels good," she says, soft, crazy with it all, hands full of his hair and running down the length of his back, every muscle coiled like a spring, "you feel good, inside me," as Peter swells against her, shoves himself inside her and settles, so much bigger than she was expecting, hotter and already making her sore, stretched out and full. "It’s good, it’s good," Peter’s hands rubbing from her thighs and her hips and her soft little stomach to her hard nipples, scraping against his chest hair with each short thrust.


End file.
